Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “I have a question, O mighty man killer.” Trish turned on her side so she could look over the edge of the bed at her friend lying on the blow-up mattress on the floor.

  “What?”

  “Can you—I—be in love with two guys at the same time?”

  “What makes you think you’re in love?”

  “Okay, in ‘like,’ then?”

  “Of course, you nut. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing now—liking all kinds of different guys, trying new things.”

  “But at the same time? I mean I like Red, I really like him. When I’m with him, I think there’s nobody else. But when I’m home again and he’s off on another continent…”

  “So?”

  “I felt sorta the same way the other night with Doug.” Trish mumbled the words in a rush.

  “Told ya he likes you.”

  “But does that make me a—a cheater or something?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not like you’re going with Red or anything.”

  Trish flopped over on her back. “Life sure is complicated.”

  But it didn’t feel complicated the next afternoon when she rode Diego’s five-year-old into the winner’s circle of the McLoughlin one-mile stakes race. Handshakes, cameras flashing, reporters asking questions—she felt fantastic. Curt Donovan gave her a thumbs-up sign and tapped his notebook.

  “After the program?”

  She nodded and turned to sign an extended program. Halfway to the jockey room, she heard her name being called again. When she looked past the program offered her, her gaze traveled up a leather-jacketed arm, to broad shoulders, a square jaw, and those to-die-for fudge eyes. The smile that stretched those perfectly sculpted male lips made her grin back.

  “Congratulations. That was some race.” Taylor Winthrop spoke in a way that made it seem as if they were the only people around, in spite of the hundreds of spectators passing by.

  “Thanks. Good to see you again.” Trish finished signing her name and handed the program back. Her hand touched his in the transfer. Whoa, another tingle. She snatched it back as if she’d been burned.

  “I hope you mean that.” His voice felt as warm as his eyes looked.

  “I—ah, gotta get ready for the next race. Bye.” She refused to let herself look over her shoulder to see if he was still there. Her back, however, felt branded by his gaze.

  “Who was that?” Genie Stokes waited for her on the other side of the gate. “What a—there aren’t words good enough to describe him.”

  “I know. Name’s Taylor Winthrop. A student at University of Portland. Says he loves racing.”

  “Well, I’ll sign his program any time.” Genie held the door to the women’s jockey room open for Trish. “He sure had the eyes for you.”

  “Just ’cause I won, that’s all.” Trish dumped her helmet on the bench and pulled off the rubber bands that kept the sleeves on her silks the right length and too snug for drafts to creep up her arms. “You up in this last one?”

  Just before Trish leaped to the ground in the winner’s circle again, she caught a glimpse of fudge eyes, a sexy smile, and a waving hand. She waved back and concentrated on the festivities. When she walked off afterward, talking with Curt Donovan, Taylor was nowhere in sight.

  Was she glad or disappointed? Trish didn’t take time to puzzle it out.

  What with morning works, church, riding twice in the afternoon, and trying to study, Trish found herself with her head on her desk by nine o’clock. A glance at the clock informed her, if her neck hadn’t already, that she’d been sleeping for half an hour. With eyes half closed she undressed and hit the bed. Remembering the touch of Taylor’s hand made her smile. Could she like three guys? Rhonda’ll have a cow.

  Tuesday after school, she returned to the teen grief group at the Methodist church. She’d attended off and on before her trip to Kentucky to get help with all the feelings caused by her father’s death.

  The welcome she received made her more than glad she’d taken the time. By the questions they asked, she knew the group had kept up on what was happening to her.

  “Okay, let’s get started.” The advisor waved everyone to the chairs formed in a slipshod circle. When all were seated, she smiled at each person—a warm, welcoming smile that made Trish feel as if she hadn’t really been gone at all. “Trish, how would you like to start?”

  “Things have been pretty good—about thinking of my dad, I mean. Sometimes it’s like, if I turn my head real quick, I’ll see him standing there, smiling at me.” She could feel the burning start behind her eyes. “But he’s never there.” She paused. And sighed. “I guess, I’m kinda thinking about Thanksgiving—and then Christmas.” Again a pause.

  The advisor handed Trish a tissue. “The first holidays are the hardest. But you get through. Each day is still only twenty-four hours long.”

  “Yeah, but you can cry an awful lot of tears in twenty-four hours.” A member across the circle leaned forward. “It’s been two years since my mother died, and still I cry sometimes.”

  “It helps if you do something totally different than what you used to do,” someone else added.

  “Yeah, like don’t try to keep everything the same as before—‘cause it ain’t.” A younger boy with owly glasses tried to smile at her, but his mouth quivered.

  Trish could feel her chin wobble. “Like what?”

  After they tossed out a list of suggestions, she wiped her eyes again. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Being here every week will help, and you have my number if you feel like calling.” The advisor nodded to the girl next to Trish. “Melissa, how’re you doing?”

  Trish left with ideas climbing on top of each other to be first. She and her mother were due for a long talk.

  Trish approached Ms. Wainwright before class the next day. “You have a few minutes to talk after school?”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  Trish dragged herself out of weight-training class. This was the first time she’d tried arm weights since the accident. Now she hurt—everywhere.

  “How come it’s so easy to get out of shape and so hard to get back in?” She leaned her forehead against the cool of the metal locker door.

  “Like it’s not fair, I know.” Rhonda dug through her stack of books. “Jason’s taking me home, okay?”

  Trish nodded. “See you in the morning.”

  Her face still felt flushed by the time she took a chair in front of Ms. Wainwright’s desk. “I have something I’d like to add to the B&C project.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “If you don’t mind and won’t tell anyone where it came from.”

  Ms. Wainwright stuck her hands in the pockets of her denim skirt and leaned against the back of her chair. “What’s up?”

  “I was thinking—and I checked with my mother first—what if we cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner for the homeless?”

  “We?”

  “All of us. Mom and I—we’d like to buy the turkeys and fxings—then if all of us cooked—at a church or something over in Portland—and served it. We could give away the blankets and coats at the same time.” Trish leaned forward, her elbows on her desk top. “What do you think? Would it work?”

  “I don’t see why not. We’ll have to ask the class.”

  “But I don’t want anyone to know we bought the groceries.”

  “No problem. I’ll just say it’s been donated.” Mrs. Wainwright tipped her pencil from one end to the other. “You sure this is what you’d like to do?”

  “Uh-huh. I—we need to do something different this year at our house, and maybe this way we could do some good for a lot of people.”

  “No maybe about it, Trish. This is a fine idea. I’ll bring it up tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

  The next afternoon the government class voted their overwhelming approval. Rhonda gave Trish a questioning look and then an I-know-what-you’re-doing grin.

  “That means all of you have to c
heck with your parents to see if you can help. If your folks would like to join us, they could do that too. We won’t just cook and serve, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving with a huge family.” The teacher posted a clipboard on the cork wallboard. “Here’s the sign-up sheet. If we don’t get enough from this class, we’ll open it up to the rest of the school.”

  Trish tried to act like she always did, but still Doug and Rhonda grabbed her arms after class and marched her to a quiet corner.

  “All right, when do we go shopping?” Rhonda’s grin made the Cheshire cat look like a failure in the smiling department.

  “You mean…” Doug looked from Rhonda’s grin to Trish’s shrug. “Awesome. We can use my truck to haul stuff.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, please?” Trish looked from one to the other. She checked her watch. “We’re going to be late.” The three charged off to their separate classes.

  But that night at home, things weren’t quite so smooth. David called, and as ordered, Trish didn’t pick up the phone until she heard his voice on the recorder.

  “What took you so long?” David sounded pushed.

  “Um…” Trish knew she’d better tell the truth. “Officer Parks said not to answer until we knew who was calling.”

  “You mean that…” David used a name that made Trish glad her mother wasn’t on the other line yet.

  “Jerk?” Trish added with a smile.

  “Whatever. He’s called again?”

  “Yep. And sent the most gorgeous roses. At least he has good taste.”

  “Trish, this isn’t a joke.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And you guys didn’t tell me what was going on. I thought maybe it was all over.”

  Marge had picked up the phone. “If we were more concerned, we would have told you.”

  Trish held the phone away from her ear while David went off on a tirade. When he calmed down again, she rejoined the conversation. “I got other news for you,” she said after catching him up on what happened at the track. “We’re donating the food to serve the homeless for Thanksgiving. Isn’t that super?”

  “We’re what?”

  She could tell by the tone of his voice that David didn’t think the idea was super at all.

  Chapter

  10

  So he’s not coming home for Thanksgiving?”

  “I was just as shocked as you. Maybe we should have asked him before we talked with Ms. Wainwright.” Marge curled her feet up under her on the sofa. “I just never dreamed he wouldn’t be as excited as we are.”

  “I think—no, I know Dad would think this is a great idea.” Trish snuggled back in her father’s recliner.

  “Yep, that’s one of the hard things for me. All those years we gave what we could when we didn’t have much, and now that we have plenty of money, he’s not here to enjoy giving it away.” Marge leaned her head back on the cushions. “I’m not looking forward to the holidays at all. Every time I think of mailing Christmas cards or putting up the tree, I see a big hole where your dad should be.” She reached over and snagged a tissue out of the box by her rocking chair.

  Trish huddled deeper into the recliner. Her mother’s thoughts matched her own. “At least Thanksgiving will be fun. Even if David bugged out.” Her words sounded brave, but inside, she could feel the yawning chasm. Would their family never be whole again?

  When she woke up the next morning, an idea flashed into her mind. Trish threw back the covers and leaped from the bed. “Mom!” She charged down the hall, nearly crashing into her mother.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just had a great idea.”

  “Yeah, well, you scared me half to death.”

  Trish couldn’t stop jumping up and down. “Mom, listen. What if we go to visit Gram and Gramps for Christmas? That would sure be different—Christmas in Florida. We’ve never been there for Christmas. What do you think?” Her words tripped over each other and came out with a whoosh.

  “But who would take care of everything here?”

  “Patrick and Brad. We could hire more help if they need it. We wouldn’t have to be gone long, a couple of days. Beaches, warm sun, and if Gram doesn’t want to cook, we’ll buy dinner. You think David will like the idea?”

  “We’d better check with him before I call Mother.” Marge gave Trish a hug. “I think you came up with a winner this time, Tee.”

  Within two days, all the arrangements were made, with David agreeing it was a great idea. Marge’s parents were totally floored but thrilled.

  Trish went into finals week feeling as if someone had turned her treadmill up to racing speed when she wasn’t looking. On Friday night she and Doug went out for pizza to celebrate with Rhonda and Jason.

  “I have something else to cheer about.” Trish held up her tall glass of Diet Coke. “The Jerk hasn’t called or anything since he sent the roses. Maybe he fell off the face of the earth or something.” They all clanked their glasses together.

  Or maybe God is answering your prayers for him, her nagger whispered in her ear. He sure liked to say “I told you so.” Trish ignored the voice and teased Jason about the basketball team. The Prairie High boys’ team had never gone to the state tournament, while the girls had gone nearly every year.

  “This season will be different,” Jason promised. “You wait and see. With Doug guarding and me at center, we will show them all.” The two guys slapped high fives. “After all, that is why I come to your school, to win at basketball.”

  “And here I thought you came to meet me.” Rhonda pulled a sad face.

  “That is how you say ‘the frosting on the cookie.’” He reached over and draped a long arm across her shoulders.

  “On the cake.” Trish sucked on her straw.

  “What?” Jason looked around. “Do they serve cake here?”

  “No, Wollensvaldt. You messed up the saying again. It’s ‘frosting on the cake,’ not a cookie.” Rhonda shook her head, her red hair flying and her grin making them all laugh.

  “Oh. I will learn.” He wagged a long, bony finger at all of them. “But you watch. Prairie will go to state.”

  How will I find time to go to the games? Trish thought, stirring her drink with her straw. Doug’s already talking about me being there, like it’s important to him. Men sure can complicate your life.

  She thought of that again on Saturday when Rob Garcia, one of the apprentice jockeys, cut her off in the third race, nearly causing an accident.

  “Dumb punk kid,” she muttered to Genie Stokes when they walked back to the jockey room, neither one of them making it into the money.

  “Trish, he’s older than you are,” Genie leaned close to say, “and been racing longer. He just wants out of apprenticeship so bad he’ll do anything to win.”

  “Well, it didn’t do him any good. He got called for recklessness. I’d hate to be near him with my car if he drives like he rides.” Trish dumped her stuff on top of her bag. “I think I’ll let Dr. Dan over there work on my back. I have two races to sit out.” She left Genie and crossed the room to where the resident chiropractor was working over one of the other jockeys on his table.

  “Sure, give me fifteen minutes,” the gray-haired man replied. “Why don’t you go take a hot shower to soften those muscles while you wait.”

  Trish did as he suggested and let the water wash away her resentment of the offending jockey.

  By the time Dr. Dan was finished with her, she felt both relaxed and recharged.

  She met Brad and Patrick in the spoke-wheel-shaped saddling paddock. Crowds lined the railings to watch the preparations. Gatesby wasn’t happy. His laid-back ears when Trish entered the stall said it all.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Trish stayed out of nip range.

  “Got up on the wrong side of the stall, I think.” Brad held the gelding’s head while Patrick adjusted the throat strap.

  “Glad you’ve got him and not me,” Genie said from the stall next to them.

 
“Thanks.” Trish took a solid hold on the bit shank and rubbed Gatesby up around the ears and down his cheek. “You ready to run, you silly horse?” Instead of pricking his ears forward as he usually did when Trish talked to him, Gatesby laid them back again.

  “I been thinkin’ mayhap I should scratch him.” Patrick checked the girth and the wide white band that went over the saddle.

  “It’s up to you,” Trish said, all the while her hands keeping up their soothing rhythm.

  “Riders up.” The call crackled over the sound system.

  “Just watch ’im, lass.” Patrick tossed her into the saddle. “And watch out for Garcia. He’s riding again in this one.” He smoothed a hand down the gelding’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid to use the whip on Gatesby here. You got to keep his attention.”

  Brad and Patrick both walked her out to the pony riders, one on each side of the fractious gelding. “Watch ’im.” Patrick cautioned the young woman riding a palomino. The bugle called the field of eight out onto the track, gray in the drizzle and fog.

  “Have a good one, Trish,” a voice called from the sidelines.

  Trish looked up in time to catch a flashing smile from Taylor Win-throp. She waved back. She hadn’t seen him lately. Would he ask her to go for drinks again? Would she go?

  Gatesby snorted and crow-hopped, reminding her to pay attention to one thing—him.

  “Watch out for him,” one of the handlers reminded the others at the starting gate. “He bit me bad last time.” It took three tries to get Gatesby into the starting gate. Finally two handlers got behind him and literally pushed him in.

  Trish could feel the heat rising up her neck. Today even a blush felt good. “You—you—” Trish couldn’t think of a name bad enough to call the horse without cussing him out. Instead, she switched from scolding him to soothing him with the singsong croon that usually worked.

  Gatesby stamped his feet and switched his tail. With the gates all shut, Trish settled in for the start. Finally, Gatesby’s ears pricked forward. She could feel him settle on his haunches.

  The gun! The clang of the gates and they were off.